


Tiresias the Sun

by Freakierthanthou



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied one-sided Enjolras/OMC, Implied one-sided underage, Implied/non-occurring non-con, M/M, Mythology porn, Tiresias, Trans Male Character, Unrepentant Combeferre love, Warning: Implied Suicidal Ideation, Warning: Transphobia, trans!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freakierthanthou/pseuds/Freakierthanthou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Les Mis Kink Meme, Round 4:<br/>Les Amis end up being captured/made to surrender somehow before anyone dies*. Hadley Fraser!National Guardsman begs the rest of the guards to be allowed to be the one to interrogate Enjolras, and alone at that. They allow it, ignoring the objections of the Les Amis, who assume it must be a personal vendetta of some sort. Of course, unbeknownst to them, it's because National Guardsman recognizes Enjolras from childhood and fears that the other national guards would not be kind when they realize they are dealing with the Mademoiselle Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They caught Jehan first. Combeferre suggested trading their prisoner for him, and so, leaving Joly guarding the spy, he crossed the barricade, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed. 

They took him too, and while Joly was distracted by the commotion, the spy disarmed him. 

Now they were surrounded, the spy having captured Joly on one side, and Combeferre and Jehan, guns to their heads, on the other, as the leader of the National Guard shouted that they wouldn't hurt them if the men at the barricade surrendered. 

Enjolras didn't fully believe them, but he glanced at his friends and he couldn't take the chance. He threw down his gun.

They were on him in seconds, and the others were taken moments after. No one tried to continue the fight alone. 

The spy passed off his gun to one of the others, saying something Enjolras didn't quite catch about an appointment, and disappeared. The rest of them were restrained, dragged together in a line, and the commander stepped in front of them. He was tall, his brown eyes darting from face to face, and behind the uniform and mustache, Enjolras thought he saw something he remembered faintly.

“Which of you is the leader here?” he asked. 

Enjolras stepped forward. “I am,” he said. 

The stranger's brows raised, barely perceptible, and the familiarity suddenly hit Enjolras like a slap in the face. There was an image in his mind of a boy with laughing brown eyes, always running away from him. It flickered across his memory, and then was gone. 

“What is your name?” 

“Enjolras.” He raised his chin, daring anyone there to challenge him. No one did.

The commander turned to the man at his side, a second in command, Enjolras assumed. “I'll question him myself,” he said, “You get started on the others before we take them in.” 

The other looked surprised. “You don't require someone else to be there?” he asked. “In case he overpowers you, or tries to escape?” 

“No. I want him alone.” His tone was final, and his look was stern. The other backed away immediately. 

Combeferre looked as if he wanted to tear the ropes holding him. “Whatever personal vendetta you have against him, you have no right to go beyond the law to torment him.” 

He seemed like he was about to say more, but Enjolras cut him off. “Combeferre, enough,” he said. “I will go with you, monsieur,” he told the commander. 

Combeferre fell silent, but only for a moment. “If you hurt him-” he warned as they passed him. 

The commander looked him in the eye, his gaze steady. “I assure you, my friend, I will not harm this _man_ ”. 

His gaze flicked towards Enjolras as he emphasized the last word. 

They went into the cafe from there, and the commander closed and locked the door behind him before he turned around. His hands were behind his back, a military posture, and he had left Enjolras's bonds tied. 

“Tell me, Monsieur Enjolras,” he said. “What is your Christian name?” 

Enjolras didn't bat an eye. “Julien.” 

“Interesting. I believe I was acquainted with a family Enjolras once. They had no son, though.” 

Enjolras didn't answer. 

“Perhaps they were cousins of yours?” When he was greeted with silence, the commander added, softly, “I believe they had a daughter, though. She died.” 

“Pity.” 

“Indeed.” He hadn't moved from his position by the door, and even now he stayed. “She was such a pretty girl, too. Hair like spun gold, and a smile that could shed light on the entire neighborhood. She smiled so rarely, though.” 

“Monsieur,” said Enjolras sharply. “Do not toy with me.” 

The commander continued as if he hadn't heard him. “Always so serious, Genevieve. Even now.” 

Enjolras closed his eyes. “Fuck.” 

He sighed. “If I had any doubt that it was you, your language would have convinced me. I would have expected you to grow out of your foulness.” 

Enjolras opened his eyes, although he would have much preferred to stay in the dark. “Tristan Beaulieu,” he said. “What a pleasure it isn't.” 

More than anything, Tristan looked annoyed. “Genevieve, what are you doing here?” 

“Leading a revolution,” Enjolras said drily. “I should have thought that was obvious.” 

In two steps, Tristan was close enough to grab him by his jacket and haul him closer, and god it had been so long since someone had been that close, close enough to feel the softness of his chest and see a face a little too smooth to require shaving. He pulled away. 

“Do you have any idea what they'll do to you?” he demanded. “Once they realize what's under all these layers of revolution?”

Enjolras met his eyes steadily. “I knew the risks,” he said. “I made my choice.” 

The knife was out and in Tristan's hands before Enjolras could think, and he braced himself for its impact, but even with his eyes closed, he still felt the ropes around his wrists loosen. When he looked up, Tristan was inches away, and his eyes were so wide Enjolras couldn't help but wonder if he had known himself what he was going to do. 

“Run,” Tristan said. “Get out of here.” 

Enjolras stared at the rope as it fell to the floor, rubbing his wrists where his bonds had chafed. “No,” he said. 

“No?” 

He looked up. “I can't leave my friends to their fate and walk free myself.” 

“You fool,” said Tristan. 

Enjolras couldn't disagree with him there. But there was movement out of the corner of his eye. He and Tristan leaped to react at the same instant, turning towards the intruder. Dragging himself up by a table, his hair wild and his eyes red, was Grantaire. 

Enjolras relaxed, even as his stomach tightened at the thought of what the drunk might have overheard. “Grantaire,” he breathed.

Tristan shot him a sharp look. “You know this man?” 

“I am one of them,” said Grantaire. His voice was soft, but it carried across the room, and Enjolras felt it creep down his spine like a cold wind. 

“There are two of you,” Tristan said, looking between them. “The man who tied your bonds is an incompetent, you could have easily escaped and overpowered me together. I was warned of this, but my hubris caused me to take you alone despite all caution. He is known to your friends?” 

Enjolras nodded. “Yes. They know Grantaire.” 

“Their reactions will support my story, then. But you must leave now.” 

“I cannot.” Enjolras's throat was dry. “I will not abandon those who depend on me.” 

“Oh, for-” Tristan cut himself off before he could reach a curse unfit for a lady's ears. “You will have a chance to save them, but only if you are free.” He dropped his voice. “Please, Genevieve. I know what will happen to a woman as beautiful as you accused of treason. Not all of my men are good ones, and I could not bear to see you as they would have you. Escape, do this for me, and I swear I will help you recover your friends.” 

Slowly, Enjolras nodded, and he felt his stomach grow sick at the thought of what his own fear was bringing him to. He did not speak, but Tristan clasped his arm in relief. 

“Go to my apartments in Rue Monmartre. You can hide there until it is safe to leave the city.” 

“We will not be leaving without our friends,” Enjolras said. 

Tristan sighed. “Of course. But for now, go, please, while you still have the chance.”

They went. 

*

Combeferre felt his stomach drop when the commander returned alone. He had a bruise on the side of his face and was rubbing his wrists, but for a split second his eyes met Combeferre's and his concern and worry vanished into something else.

“He escaped,” the commander said. “The knots weren't tied properly, and there was another man waiting there. Who was responsible for checking the cafe?” 

As they bickered amongst themselves, Courfeyrac leaned over to whisper in Combeferre's ear. “Grantaire?” he asked. Combeferre shook his head as if he was shaking off a fly. The drunk had disappeared, he wasn't sure when, but just because the commander's story had a second man there didn't mean he wasn't lying. He couldn't say this out loud, not with the hope blooming in his companions' eyes, but Combeferre did not believe he would ever see his friend again. 

*

They stopped running eventually. After hitting Tristan to cover their escape, Grantaire had grabbed Enjolras's wrist to pull him away. He needed to make sure he went, and as they ran, his grasp slipped until they were holding hands. They did not let go immediately after they stopped running. When they did, it was Enjolras who pulled away first. 

“How much did you hear?” he asked. He continued to walk, making his way to the address Tristan had given him, and he didn't look at Grantaire. 

The other man didn't answer immediately. He shuffled alongside Enjolras, his eyes roving, distracted, catching sight of any movement in the darkened streets. 

“Genevieve's a pretty name,” he said finally.

“It doesn't suit me.” Enjolras heard his voice come out sharper than he had intended, more of a rebuke, but didn't it always when it came to Grantaire? He bit his tongue to keep an apology or a harsher admonition in check. 

“It could.” Grantaire glanced at him, sidelong, but Enjolras kept his eyes forward, refusing to look at him. 

“Perhaps, but it does not,” he said. They walked in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “Ovid wrote of Tiresias, a man, transformed into a woman by a god. Have you read it?” 

“Metamorphoses,” Grantaire replied. “Yes, I have. Long ago.” 

“Do you believe,” Enjolras hesitated. Many times he had gone over this conversation in his head, but he had never spoken it aloud to another person. 

“Yes,” Grantaire said, softly. When Enjolras looked at him, he waved his hand, a blush staining his cheeks. “Go on.” 

“Do you believe someone may be born with Tiresias's curse?” Enjolras asked. “Born a woman, but really a man?” 

Grantaire paused. He seemed to be absorbing the idea. “There are no snakes for you to separate,” he commented. “No action you could undo to be changed into a man, unless you consider your birth.” 

“Sometimes I wish I could undo my birth,” Enjolras said. 

He felt Grantaire's hand on his shoulder, and he stopped, with some reluctance. 

“I would not have it so,” said Grantaire quietly. 

Enjolras gave him a small smile, and Grantaire looked almost surprised to get such a reaction, but he nodded, satisfied. They continued walking. 

“If I recall my classical literature correctly,” Grantaire said, “Tiresias was blessed with unique perspective, from having lived as both man and woman.”

“And for sharing that with the gods, he was struck blind,” countered Enjolras.

“And given a the power to see the future,” replied Grantaire. “You have chosen an apt comparison.” 

Enjolras huffed a laugh, although it did not sound mirthful even to his own ears. Grantaire grinned at him, sidelong, and continued on in silence.

After a moment, though, Enjolras couldn't keep quiet any longer, not without finishing the conversation he had desperately not wanted to start. 

“You said once that you believed in me,” he said. “Some time ago, I might have been willing to reveal my secret to you, if no one else, because you were never a follower of the revolution, you never had any belief to be tarnished by discovering that your leader was a lie. Now, I am not so sure. I think you did believe, once, as you said you did. But I must ask: do you still believe in me?” 

Grantaire looked at him carefully a moment before turning his eyes back to the road ahead. “Of course I do,” he said. “But you never told me your first name was Julien.”


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was almost coming up over the rooftops before the key turned in the lock and Tristan appeared in the doorway. He brought with him food, and his gun. Enjolras tensed to see the latter, although rationally he knew that Tristan had risked more letting them escape than he could possibly gain by killing them now. Still, for all the man had been his friend when they were children together, or as near as anyone had ever been to claiming the title, Enjolras could not bring himself to trust him. 

“The other barricades have fallen,” Tristan told them as they ate. “If it's escape you want, you will not find any help in your revolutionary compatriots.” 

“I do not seek escape,” Enjolras said. “I want to rescue my friends, and I want to return to the fray. We will not fail a second time.” 

Tristan sighed. “Is she always like this?” he asked Grantaire.

Grantaire looked up from the bread he was eating. “Yes,” he said. “He is.” 

A narrowing of the eyes was the only indication that Tristan had noticed the change in pronouns, but Grantaire met his gaze without flinching. Enjolras felt suddenly nervous, sitting in between the two men, and while he never shied away from an argument or a fight, he did not want to explain himself again, to an audience likely less sympathetic than Grantaire. 

He never would have thought, if you had asked him before all this began, that he would consider Grantaire a sympathetic audience, someone kind and easy to be around, but here they were. A night at the barricades would take down anything that stood between friends, and the coming days warned that they could do much more. 

“Tristan,” Enjolras interrupted, before they could lost the point entirely. “What of our friends?” 

Tristan tore his gaze away from Grantaire to look at him. “They were taken to La Force Prison” he said. “They await trial and, most likely, execution if they are found guilty.” 

“They will be,” said Grantaire. 

Enjolras laid a warning hand on his arm. “They will be unless we free them,” he corrected. “Tristan. Will you help us?”

“For the memory of my brother, yes.” 

Tristan was watching him closely, and Enjolras stilled. He found that he could not meet his old friend's eyes, and internally he cringed in disgust at his own weakness. “We were friends once,” he said quietly. “I would rather you help me for that.” 

“Perhaps.” He couldn't see Tristan's face from here he was looking, but he could hear the other man get up from the table. “You must be tired. Forgive me if I do not offer you my bed, but I fear that my landlady may faint if she wakes to find a strange woman in my room.” 

He bowed mockingly, and still Enjolras did not look up. It wasn't until he heard the door close that he stirred again. He could feel Grantaire watching him. 

“I suppose you want to know who his brother was?” he asked.

“I suppose you do not want to tell me,” Grantaire countered. 

Enjolras shook his head. “There is a part of me that wants you to know,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper in the harsh light of the morning, “But I am tired, and I cannot quite bring myself to share any more secrets today. Is that alright?” 

“You do not owe me any explanations,” Grantaire replied. “In fact, you sharing as much as you have of yourself is more than I ever hoped for.” 

Enjolras looked at him, but by the time he did, Grantaire's face was steady, if it had ever been different. “Get some rest,” he said. “I'll watch over you.” 

It was with some reluctance that Enjolras abandoned his plan to rescue his friends for a few hours, but he was surprised to find that he had few qualms about letting Grantaire guard him in his sleep. Perhaps it was only because he was used to Grantaire's eyes on him, but the thought of the other man watching him, as he took off his jacket and curled around himself in the chair, was not as unsettling as it should have been. 

*

The plan began in earnest that afternoon, once both Enjolras and Tristan had slept. Grantaire did not seem to have joined them, and his head was sagging as he sat in the corner, not entirely a part of their planning but still not abandoning them entirely. 

“You could free them,” Enjolras argued. “You have access to the keys, could guide them out with little suspicion, if we only find the appropriate cover.” 

“It's not that simple.” Tristan sighed. “Even if I did manage to help them, what would become of me? I already am risking my job and my life in order to help you, but to go so directly against my superiors is unthinkable. There would be no safe place left for me in Paris if I did this.”

“Then you could join us,” said Enjolras. “I know you, Tristan, you cannot be blind to the injustices around you. We would help you, if you let us, and our cause is good.”

“You do not know me,” Tristan said. His voice was as sharp as broken glass. “Not anymore, Genevieve.” 

“Don't call me that.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, does he not know?” Tristan did not sound at all apologetic as he looked at Grantaire, who glanced up to glare at him. “You two just seem so close, I assumed you were his mistress.” 

Enjolras couldn't help but flinch a little bit at his tone, the disgust fairly palpable in the room. Grantaire unfolded his legs so that he was sitting, not lying in the chair. 

“Does he look like someone's mistress?” he asked. If Enjolras thought he caught a threat in the other man's voice, he would not have been wrong. 

Tristan looked between them. “Not a bit,” he said drily. 

“Good.” 

Enjolras broke their staring contest by slamming the palm of his hand down on the table. They both jumped, like a pair of fighting dogs separated by their master. Or perhaps snakes would be more appropriate. 

“Tristan,” he said. “If you do not want to help us, then we will take our leave of you with our thanks for your hospitality.” 

“Hospitality.” Tristan snorted. “I saved your life.”

“Yes, you did,” Enjolras said. He refused to let Tristan see him fazed by the restatement what he already knew. “Why did you?”

“What?” 

“Why did you save me,” Enjolras repeated. “You let us go, but I have never known you to do anything without a reason.”

Tristan hesitated. “We were friends once,” he said.

“Once,” agreed Enjolras. “But that was a long time ago, and I am not the girl you knew as a child.” And if Tristan only knew who true that was! “You don't owe me anything.” 

“I may not owe it to you, but I owe it to myself.” Tristan stood. “Plan your escape here for as long as you need, but I'll have no part in it. I will not risk myself for your revolution.” 

And with that, he turned and walked away. 

Enjolras sighed. He could feel his shoulders sink as soon as the door was closed, less a relaxation and more a deflation, like a building slowly collapsing when its civilization abandoned it and it no longer had anyone to stand for. 

Grantaire was looking at the floor, apparently fascinated by it, and refusing to meet Enjolras's eyes. 

“What is it?” Enjolras asked. When Grantaire didn't stir, he turned a little in his chair so he was facing the other man. “I've never known you to shy away from saying what you think before, tell me.” 

Now Grantaire looked up. “You have always had more of a head for planning than I,” he said. “But I don't see how we could possibly stage a jailbreak with only two people, and what's more, no way of communicating with the others inside.” 

“I know,” Enjolras admitted. “I've been trying to find a way around it, but I cannot think of anything. We are wanted men, and to go near the prison would mean immediate arrest. I would be willing to sacrifice myself if I thought it could save our friends, of course, but it seems to me that this would accomplish nothing but to do the job of the National Guard for them.” 

“We need Tristan,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras nodded. “It pains me to admit it, since his help will not come freely, but yes. I fear we do.”

*

Enjolras made sure that he was alone when Tristan came back that evening. Tristan was wearing his uniform, though he had taken off his hat, and glanced around the room as he entered. 

“Where's your friend?” he asked. 

“He went to find us food.” Grantaire had left only a few minutes before, although he hadn't been happy to leave Enjolras alone with Tristan. 

Enjolras wished he could say that he disagreed with their resident cynic's attitude in this regard, but to be perfectly honest, he didn't entirely trust his old friend either. There was plenty of history there, yes, but at the same time, he knew firsthand how much a person could change. 

“It's dangerous for the two of you to leave here.” Tristan put down his hat at the table, and started to take off his jacket, but he stopped abruptly. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't undress with a lady here.” 

Enjolras flinched. “I wish you wouldn't call me that.” 

“A lady?” Tristan asked. “Perhaps you are no lady, but you are a woman, Genevieve.” 

“I prefer to be called Julien.” 

“We cannot choose how we are born.” 

“No,” Enjolras agreed. “We cannot.” He met Tristan's eyes until the latter looked away, but he felt no victory at the small concession. “Perhaps we can start over?” he suggested. “As if you never knew me, as if we just met yesterday, as men.” 

“I cannot forget my own history,” said Tristan. “Nor can I forget what you did to Ghislain.” 

“That was not my fault,” Enjolras replied. “His heart was never mine to break.”

“He's married now,” Tristan said. 

He spoke like he was throwing a punch, words intended to hurt. “Good.” Enjolras spoke with no hesitation. “He deserves to be happy. He was always very kind.” 

“He is a good person,” replied Tristan. “Better than you or I.” 

“You will get no argument from me in that regard,” said Enjolras. 

He thought then of Tristan as a boy. He was a year younger than Julien, and Ghislain was older than them both by a stretch of nearly a decade. He had always been the peacemaker between the younger two, who, being the only ones of a similar age in their neighborhood, would always be sent to play together. On a good day, they could manage half an hour of civilized games before it would devolve into an argument. 

Ghislain would pull the two apart, and they would go easily, with a cutting remark from one or the other before Tristan ran off to play with the others and Enjolras was left alone. Never their nanny, Ghislain would bury himself in his books as soon as the fight was over, and more often than not, Enjolras would emulate the serious student, to the amusement of their parents. Ghislain always tolerated him, which was more than he could say for most. 

Still, as he looked at Tristan now, he felt a sudden surge of affection. They had never been friends as children, not really, but nostalgia doesn't always harken to a better time, just a different one. Tristan had been a- a companion, of sorts, before the complexities of adulthood intruded on all his friendships. 

“Your brother and I used to read together,” Enjolras commented now. His voice was softer to his own ears, almost womanly, but he did not correct it.

“I know.”

“He taught me history and politics.” He smiled to himself. “And much more.” 

“For God's sake, do not tell me any more!” Tristan cried. 

Enjolras looked surprised. “Why not?”

“Because I do not want to think of my brother's intimate relations with a-” he gestured “-a woman who puts on the guise of a man.” 

“It is not a disguise,” Enjolras said. “The way you knew me was more of a disguise than anything. And Ghislain and I were close friends, but we were never intimate in the way you insinuate.”

Tristan looked surprised. “No?” 

He started to say something else, but then appeared to think better of it. “It is none of my business anyway.”

“No, go on.” Enjolras was annoyed now, and he stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. “You believed the rumors, then? That my engagement ended once my intended found out that Ghislain and I were lovers? That he took advantage of me when I was so young? You believed that of your own brother?” 

“I believed you were in love,” Tristan said. His voice was firm and sincere. “You were always in each others' company, and he seemed unhappy when your engagement to M. Durand was announced.”

“M. Durand was a cruel man,” said Enjolras. “He beat his servants and his daughters, and he did not love me. Ghislain was unhappy because I was unhappy, and my engagement ended because I convinced my parents to see reason.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Your parents were never very easy to convince.” 

“I was very convincing.” He glared at Tristan until the guardsman shook his head, laughing under his breath as if it was a concession. “You truly believed that I broke Ghislain's heart?” he asked.

“We were told you were dead that summer, only a few months after your engagement ended,” Tristan replied. “But I never could bring myself to fully believe it. Did Ghislain know that you lived, ran off to Paris to live as a man?”

Enjolras shook his head. 

“He was never the same after,” remarked Tristan. “I think you may have underestimated your effect on my dear brother.” 

“How could I break what I never held?” Enjolras asked. “He never gave me his heart, and even if he had, I would not have accepted it.”

“You can break a man's heart without holding it in your hands,” said Tristan. 

Enjolras's mind was playing tricks on him because just then, he saw an image of Grantaire in his thoughts. 

Tristan was watching him carefully, but if he saw anything there, it was not reflected on his face. “We speak in metaphors,” he said. “And you would speak of insurrection.” 

“Yes.” Enjolras shook his head to clear it. “It was Ghislain who introduced me to revolution, who taught me the value of freedom. He is the reason I came to where I am, to fight with my brothers at the barricades.”

“From what I am told, you are the reason there were barricades to fight on at all,” Tristan remarked. “They say you are a dangerous man, Monsieur Enjolras.” 

Enjolras had not sat back down at the table yet, so he had to look down a little ways to meet Tristan's eyes. The other man held his gaze firmly, as if he was assessing him. 

“Do you believe them?” Enjolras asked. 

A thought flickered across Tristan's face and was hidden as soon as it appeared, but he replied anyway, without moving his eyes from Enjolras's, his tone steady. 

“Perhaps you are,” he said. “And perhaps you are not. I have always enjoyed a little danger in my life.” He stood then and stretched lazily, but Enjolras was not fooled by his casual exterior, saw the purpose behind every movement. 

“My brother and I have not spoken in years,” said Tristan. “I do not imagine that he would be pleased to see me fighting against your revolution. He still supports your ideals, you know, but he has grown lazy, and believes only from the comfort of his home.”

“And you?”

Tristan smiled. “There is always one Beaulieux son within every revolution, it seems. Is our family as doomed to perpetual revolution as France is?”

“France will fight until we are free,” Enjolras said.

“You really believe that.” It was not a question, and Enjolras did not answer him. “France will fight. Then so, I suppose, shall I.”

*

Combeferre leaned his head against the stone walls and closed his eyes. He had slept only briefly since they had taken him here, meticulously keeping track of the hours as if knowing the time would help him escape. Just as he stayed awake while the others were sleeping, as if awake and alert he could stop any harm from coming to them.

At least they were all housed near each other. No one seemed afraid that they would plot an escape, kept together like this. Combeferre supposed that they assumed it was impossible. So far, he had little evidence to prove them wrong.

He was sharing a small cell and a single bed with Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bahorel. The others were across the long hallway from them. In the dim light that filtered through, he could barely see their shadows.

There was a sound at the other end of the hall and Combeferre sprang to his feet. The door was opening, and a man appeared there, framed by the light. He held the keys in his hand, and they rattled with a promise, but there were several others behind him, their faces stern and their hands on weapons. Combeferre recognized the man in the front as the leader of the National Guard who had captured them, the man who- maybe- had killed Enjolras. A bruise still blossomed on his cheek. 

“Take them.” The commander pointed towards the other cell, and one of the others stepped aside, unlocking the door. His companions had their pistols trained on the revolutionaries inside, keeping them from moving too much. The door to Combeferre's cell was opened, and the commander stepped inside. 

“Hold out your arms,” he said.

Combeferre didn't move. “Why?” 

The other man held up a set of irons. “Prisoner transfer,” he explained. “Your arms.” 

For a moment, Combeferre considered staying where he was, but his eyes fell on the guns trained on them, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Courfeyrac shake his head. They had no chance of escaping now, even if they did choose to fight. And so, ignoring the voice in his head that told him that he was giving up his last opportunity, he held out his arms. 

The commander stepped forward, pulling Combeferre closer as he wrapped the cuffs around his wrists. His lips barely moved as he spoke in a tone almost too soft for Combeferre to hear. 

“I am a friend,” he said. “You must be ready to fight. Pass the message on to the others.” 

Combeferre couldn't stop his eyes from widening, just a little, as the commander passed him out of the cell to the others. Feeling the chains around his wrists, he realized that one of them was not sealed entirely. 

For the first time since the barricades had fallen, he felt something akin to hope. He tightened his hand into a fist and waited. 

*

Enjolras waited. 

He had been reluctant when the plan had taken them this close to the prison, but with no other options, he had readily agreed. 

Grantaire had not been so willing. 

“This plan is mad, you understand that?” he had said. “This cannot end well. You risk too much.” 

“There is nothing I would not risk to save my friends,” Enjolras said stubbornly. 

“You are going to die.”

“You do not have to come.” 

He was annoyed when he said that, tired and all too ready to take out his frustration on Grantaire. Grantaire set his jaw and did not dignify that with an answer. Of course he would come. He always did, and anyone who thought that Enjolras didn't notice that was a fool. Today, for once, he felt more relieved than guilty at the thought of Grantaire risking his own life to stand beside him, and that was the worst of all.

Now Grantaire laid a soft hand on his shoulder, and if Enjolras leaned into the touch a little, desperate for comfort, he would never admit it.

“They should be here soon,” he said.

“I know.”

Grantaire was speaking just to speak, Enjolras knew, to break the silence, but he could not fault him for it. 

Instead, he joined him.

“Do you still want to know about Tristan's brother?” he asked.

The reply was immediate. “Only if you want to tell me.”

And Enjolras did. He wanted to tell Grantaire the stories about the books the two of them read together, about Ghislain's gentle smile and eyes bright with passion, about their games as children, whispering secrets to each other much as he and Grantaire were now. 

But they did not have the time, so he kept it simple. 

“His name was Ghislain,” he said. “We were friends, as children, though he was much older than I. When I was old enough, a man who lived nearby asked for my hand in marriage, and my parents accepted on my behalf. I broke off the engagement, without their consent, and the rumor spread that my fiance had discovered that Ghislain and I were- lovers.”

“I see.” Grantaire's tone was neutral, and Enjolras didn't turn to look at him. 

“When I left home, my parents refused to live with the shame of having a daughter like me. They told everyone that I had died, and Ghislain-” he paused.

In all honestly, he wasn't sure what Ghislain had done. He had hear rumors, but that was all. He hadn't spoken to his parents since the night he left under cover of darkness, had no friends from his neighborhood. Tristan was the only person who he had spoken to since, and although everything in Enjolras wanted to trust him, he could not. 

“Ghislain mourned,” he finished. “He's married now, I hear, and happy, but Tristan believes that he loved me. He thinks I broke his heart.” 

Grantaire was silent for a moment. 

“I should have known; as a woman, you were a heartbreaker,” he said finally. It was a poor attempt at a joke. 

“You agree with him, then?” Enjolras asked. 

“I hardly know the situation enough to say,” Grantaire equivocated. “But can I imagine it? Yes. A man falling in love with you over books and debates, until he lost you to the revolution. Yes, I can imagine that quite clearly.” 

“Why?”

It was a loaded question, but Grantaire did not duck from answering it. “Because I can hardly imagine any living being that walks this earth not being in love with you,” he said. His voice was a whisper, hitting the night air with a harsh clatter and drifting away to nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is the wrong way.” 

One of their guards, the one standing right behind Jehan, stopped. He had a hand on his prisoner's arm, pulling him to a halt as well, and he spoke directly to the commander. 

For his part, the commander did not seem fazed by the argument. “There is a wagon waiting for us the next street over,” he said. 

Combeferre took a few steps to the side, testing to see how much attention was being paid to him. None of the guards seemed to notice, so he leaned over to whisper in Feuilly's ear. 

“Be ready,” he said. “The commander is a friend.” 

Feuilly's eyes widened, but he nodded, glancing around at the others. 

From the looks of it, at least Bahorel's cuffs were also loose, although he stood with one of the guards behind him, justly cautious of their mountainous prisoner. Joly and Bossuet were huddled together, and Joly had been in the same cell with Combeferre, so he was probably free, or at the very least aware of what was going on. The two of them would take care of each other. 

Courfeyrac was standing near Jehan, his eyes wary, watching the commander. So Marius was the only one who wasn't aware, and he was standing too far away, near the front, with his eyes downcast. There was no way to reach him without being spotted.

Courfeyrac glanced over at Combeferre, clearly thinking the same thing. His eyes moved towards his wayward friend, but Combeferre shook his head briefly. Marius would have to catch on or fend for himself. They couldn't do anything further to help him.

Meanwhile, the argument between the commander and his subordinate was continuing. 

“Are you doubting me?” the commander snapped. 

There was a moment when Combeferre thought he might say yes, that they would have to fight now, but then the guard turned his eyes away.

“No, sir,” he said. 

“Good,” the commander replied. “See to your duties back at the prison, we will continue on without you.” 

“Sir?”

“You're dismissed.” His voice was hard and allowed for no argument. 

The guard turned, as if he was about to leave, but something stopped him. He looked back, over his shoulder, and asked in a soft voice, “Who ordered the transfer?” 

“What?” 

“This transfer of the prisoners.” The guard turned all the way around then, and he was facing the commander. “Who ordered it?” The commander hesitated, and he pressed on. “Under whose orders are we acting, exactly?” 

“You are acting under my orders,” said the commander. “And you will do well not to question your superiors.” 

“And who gave you the order?” the guard asked. 

Less than a block away was an alley. Combeferre couldn't see what was beyond its mouth, didn't know this part of the city well enough, but he had hoped that once they reached it, they might launch their attack. It seemed now that they would not be reaching it. 

But from within the alley came a raucous laugh, the kind that spilled out onto darkened streets when the door to a noisy cafe opened and all the drunks came pouring out. Then came a woman's scream. 

A man came stumbling out into the road, and stopped when he spotted them. He was moving clumsily, drunk and unsteady, and Combeferre recognized him immediately. 

“Wasn't me,” Grantaire slurred. “Whatever she says, I didn't hit her, wasn't me.”

“You.” The commander pointed at the dissenting guard. “Find that woman, ensure that she's alright.”

The guard went without argument, disappearing into the alleyway. Combeferre tried to listen, but Grantaire was shouting again, covering up any noise that they might have told them what was happening. 

“You believe me, don't you?” he asked the commander loudly. “I didn't do nothing, you believe me. Look like a good man, yeah.” He was shaking his head as he lurched forwards, nearly collapsing against the commander and jostling Marius out of the way. “Dignified, wise. Good mustache.” 

“Step back.” One of the guards, the one standing behind Bahorel, had his gun trained on Grantaire. The drunk obeyed, moving away from the commander, his hands raised.

“You're not going to shoot me,” he said. His voice was suddenly steady, no trace of his earlier fumbling. 

“I don't want to, but-” 

Whatever he had been about to say was lost when Bahorel suddenly grabbed his arm, shaking his undone restraints off, and fired the gun into the air. 

After that, everything was chaos. 

*

Enjolras could hear Grantaire's voice as he dropped the guard's still body to the ground. He checked quickly to ensure that the man was only unconscious, not dead. When that was confirmed, he took the man's gun before stepping towards the mouth of the alley, just out of sight from anyone standing on the street.

He was going to wait, hope that they could continue on until they walked past him, following the plan, but then he heard a gunshot. 

And he took off running. 

At first glance, it looked like no one had been shot. Enjolras didn't spare the time to count to ensure that everyone was there before he threw himself at the nearest body wearing a National Guard uniform.

Combeferre had one of the cuffs on his irons undone and was letting the chain of harsh metal swing from his wrist, throwing it with his punches. He saw Enjolras and grinned, but didn't pause in his fighting. 

In a second, Grantaire was at his side, and Enjolras gripped his arm briefly in acknowledgment as he fired his gun towards their attackers. They were splitting off now, the prisoners backing away in the direction Enjolras had come, towards the alleyway. Jehan was the last one left in the fray, pinning one of the guards down and choking him with his own chains. Courfeyrac had to grab him and pull him to safety. 

Then there was a shot again, and someone was falling. Enjolras yelled for them to run, almost before he realized he was speaking, and he fired again at the group ahead of them as they pulled back into the alleyway. He looked to his side, trying to count and to ensure that everyone was there, but they were moving too fast and it was too dark. Behind them there was yelling, and Combeferre was at his side in a moment, shouting that they would split up, and Enjolras nodded without really thinking about it. 

They dispersed, disappearing into the crowd. Enjolras didn't stop until he was several blocks away and sure that they weren't being chased any longer. He had Tristan and Grantaire with him, and Jehan and Courfeyrac just a few feet behind, jogging to catch up. He paused, waiting for the last two, and they gathered on a street corner as Tristan pulled off his hat and jacket quickly, stowing it in a nearby alcove. 

Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras in a tight embrace that made Enjolras stiffen a little in surprise, but the other man's hand was on his head, reassuring, and he pulled away quickly. 

“You're alive,” Courfeyrac said.

“So I am,” replied Enjolras. He was grinning despite himself, the rush from their escape getting the better of him. “Thanks to my friend here, Tristan Beaulieux.” 

Jehan clapped Tristan on the arm. “We owe you our lives, monsieur,” he said. “At the risk of your own, you have saved us all. Thank you.”

“I have not saved you yet,” Tristan warned, although he looked a little pleased at the poet's kind words. “We must keep moving.” 

Enjolras nodded. “The others will meet us at the usual hideout,” he told them. 

“Who was shot?” Courfeyrac asked. “I couldn't see, but one of us was hit.” 

“It was Joly,” said Jehan. “Bossuet carried him away, and the last I saw they were with Combeferre.”

“Did it look serious?” asked Enjolras. 

Jehan shook his head. “I couldn't tell. It was dark, and everyone was moving too quickly.” 

One of them drew in a harsh breath, and Enjolras could read the concern written on all of their faces as plainly as if it was text. “We must go,” he said. “Until then, do not lose yourselves to speculation about his condition, it may be better than we fear.” 

They started to move, but Enjolras saw then that Grantaire was leaning heavily against the wall, struggling to get up. The leg of his trousers was dark and damp, and Enjolras flinched at the pain he saw in the other man's eyes. 

“Grantaire, you're bleeding,” he said. 

Grantaire glanced down at himself as if he didn't already know. “It was only a graze,” he said. “I should be fine.” 

“Nevertheless.” Enjolras stepped towards him and put his arm around Grantaire's shoulders. “Lean on me,” he instructed, when Grantaire tensed at his touch. “I'll help you.”

*

Their usual hideout was a basement, far enough away from the Musain and all of their homes that no one would track them there too easily. They limped down the stairs, Courfeyrac and Jehan taking the lead, Tristan at a more cautious pace in the middle, and Enjolras and Grantaire behind them, their arms still wrapped around each other. 

The others were already there. Enjolras could see Joly on the table, his head back and his eyes closed, but he was breathing heavily and clearly conscious. Bossuet had a death grip on his hand, but everyone's attention was on Combeferre, who stood over his midsection, hands covered in blood, and a look of deep concentration on his face. 

Their entrance, loud as it was, went unnoticed by the medical student, even when Jehan made a soft noise of concern in the back of his throat. Enjolras gently lowered Grantaire into a chair and waved Feuilly over. 

“How is he?” he asked. 

Feuilly shook his head. “He's alive,” he said. “He was speaking a few minutes ago, but- he was far from coherent. Combeferre is doing all that he can.” 

“I would expect nothing less,” Enjolras responded. “Thank you.”

The other man nodded and stepped away, moving to Combeferre's side with a roll of bandages and fresh water. Enjolras knelt down next to where Grantaire was sitting.

“Show me your leg,” he said. 

Grantaire looked at him, confused. “What?” 

“Show me your leg,” Enjolras repeated. “I may not be a doctor, but I can clean and bandage a wound as well as anyone.” He mistook Grantaire's hesitation for reluctance. “Both of our medics are occupied,” he said, “So you'll have to make do with me.” 

“I could ask for nothing more,” Grantaire said softly, and he didn't protest when Enjolras took his foot into his lap and rolled up the bloody leg of his trousers. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and, looked up. Tristan was standing there, in his shirtsleeves rolled up at the elbows, and he was holding a bowl of clean water and a cloth.

“Thank you,” said Enjolras. 

“By far the least I could do,” he replied, but his eyes were on Grantaire, considering. “The bullet that struck him was intended for me.” 

“My apologies,” muttered Grantaire. “If I still had it, I would be sure to give it back.” 

He hissed in pain as Enjolras dabbed the cloth over his wound. It was a deep laceration, still bleeding sluggishly, but from the little Enjolras knew of anatomy, it seemed to have struck neither bone nor muscle, and, true to Grantaire's assumption, there was no sign of a bullet. 

Behind him, Joly screamed, and Enjolras jerked, splashing Grantaire a little. Combeferre had a needle in his hand, thread drawing through Joly's flesh, and he looked almost as pained as his patient. 

“I know,” he said. “But we don't have anything to give you.” 

Joly was gasping, and he looked like he was trying to speak, leaning up, but he fell back against the table. Bossuet gripped his shoulder tight, speaking softly in his ear, and Bahorel, with a look of a man condemning himself to Hell, held him down and nodded for Combeferre to continue.


	4. Chapter 4

“Will he live?”

Bossuet's voice was shaking. Joly had passed out before Combeferre had finished, but now he was breathing steadily, the bandages around his stomach rising and falling. Bossuet still had not let go of his hand. 

“He has survived the worst of it,” Combeferre said, “But he lost a lot of blood. When he wakes we will know more, but for now, we can hope.” 

“I would rather it have been me.” Bossuet inclined his head, not looking at anyone other than Joly. “But I suppose I'm not that lucky.”

Courfeyrac put a hand on his shoulder, but Bossuet didn't react at all, as if he couldn't even feel the touch. 

“Wake me as soon as he stirs,” Combeferre instructed. “And have food and water for when he wakes. Soft food, though, or liquids. He will not be able to-” 

“Rest, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said. “We'll watch over things for you.” 

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder lightly, saying something too soft for Enjolras to hear, and disappeared towards the nest of blankets they were using as a bed. After a few moments, Courfeyrac left Bossuet to himself and came over to where Enjolras and Grantaire were sitting.

“How's your leg?” he asked.

“Better,” said Grantaire. “The wound was not too severe, I think. And Enjolras has tended me well.” 

Courfeyrac's face broke into a smile, wide and genuine. “I'm glad,” he said. “And that you are both alive. You had us worried for a moment. Well, Combeferre was worried; I, of course, was not.” 

“Of course,” said Enjolras drily. “I'm glad that you were there to reassure him, of course.” 

Courfeyrac laughed and sat down next to them. “So tell me- who is this man who helped us? I am grateful for him, of course. He saved us all. But who is he?”

“He is-” Enjolras hesitated “an old friend,” he finished. “From my childhood. I did not know he was in Paris, much less with the Guard, but when he saw me, he recognized who I was and saved me.” 

“I imagine you must look very different from when you were a child,” said Courfeyrac. “But he recognized you anyway?” 

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “And for the sake of our history, he helped me escape.” 

“For the sake of your history.” Courfeyrac's tone was musing. “And not because he knew you were a woman?” 

Enjolras choked. 

“What?” he asked. 

Courfeyrac smiled at him, a little condescendingly. “Enjolras. When you first came to Paris, who was the first friend you made?” 

“You were,” said Enjolras immediately. He could fee Grantaire's eyes on him, and was suddenly acutely aware of how little of his past the other man knew. 

“I took you in, lost little boy that you were,” Courfeyrac remembered. “We shared lodgings for nearly six months. You think, in all that time, I of all people would not have realized what you were?” 

Enjolras gaped at him. “You never said anything,” he said. 

“I intended to,” said Courfeyrac. “I was going to confront you, to confirm my suspicions. But I could not bring myself to.”

“You should have told me that you knew,” said Enjolras. 

“Should I have?” Courfeyrac's gaze was piercing. “You never wanted anyone to know. Would you have appreciated my support? Or would it have embarrassed you, that your secret was so easily discovered?” 

Enjolras bowed his head in defeat. “At the time,” he said, “I would not have thanked you for revealing me, even if it was only between us. But much has changed since then. I cannot believe you have known all these years and never said anything.” 

Courfeyrac shrugged. “There was little enough to say,” he replied. “Truthfully, once we no longer shared quarters, I found myself forgetting for long stretches of time.” He laughed. “You may not like to hear this, but even if we are victorious and you return to your dresses and ribbons and- whatever it is women do all day, I think I shall always think of you as Julien.”

“My dear friend.” Enjolras was embarrassed to find that his throat was closed with emotion, his voice tight and thin as it escaped his lips. “I should ask for nothing more.” 

*

They all slept fitfully that night. They had less than two hours of rest before Joly woke them, whimpering. Combeferre was up in an instant, at his side, and Bossuet had never left. Enjolras hovered a little behind them, feeling useless.

Grantaire was at his shoulder the entire time. When they slept the first time, he had curled up at Enjolras's feet without him noticing, until he woke in his corner to feel a warm weight over his ankles. Once Joly's gasps had subsided, when Combeferre sent them away, assuring them that he would be fine, that the worst was over, Enjolras took Grantaire by the shoulders as he started to shuffle off. 

“It cannot be good for your leg to sleep on the floor like that,” he said sternly. 

Grantaire grinned at him, that wide grin he reserved for times when he didn't mean it. “I don't mind,” he said. 

Enjolras ignored that, pulling him towards the pile of blankets he had made his bed. 

“Here,” he said.

He had intended to lower Grantaire down and leave, but the other man was gripping him tight and pulled him down with him. Enjolras did not resist. 

“Thank you,” said Grantaire softly. 

His hair was wild and untamed, enveloping Enjolras's face, brushing his skin like tender fingers. He smelled of blood and dust and sweat, and Enjolras breathed. He was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to suck Grantaire into him, to hold him somewhere inside, protected by his ribcage, until it was safe to come out. 

Instead he pulled Grantaire closer, his arms wrapped around him in the darkness, and relished the unfamiliar feeling of having someone so close. Grantaire was gentle and pliant, relaxing into him as if he had been made to fit around the curve of Enjolras's chest, head under chin, hand on back, legs intertwined. 

They fell asleep like that, and Enjolras thought briefly as he matched his breathing and let his chest, tight under the bandages, rise and fall with Grantaire's, that if he could paint a picture of how they looked through Grantaire's eyes, it might show him as he was. 

*

They healed slowly. 

There was little Combeferre could do for Grantaire's leg that hadn't already been done, so he rested it and waited. Enjolras changed the bandages daily, focusing on the work in front of his hands, and not on the way Grantaire watched him. He stared the way he always did, but when they were this close he was like an animal, half afraid and vulnerable. Enjolras did not analyze the look in his eyes too closely, or the stir in his stomach in response.

Joly's wounds were deeper. The bullet had struck his stomach, below his ribcage, but it had missed any vital organs. Still, he had lost too much blood, and for a long time he was as weak as a newborn kitten, barely able to sit up without assistance to eat or drink. It was two days before Combeferre finally relaxed a little, and admitted that he was past the point of danger. 

To everyone's surprise, Joly himself did not seem worried about the risk of infection. He smiled broadly when he was awake, unconcerned and grateful to be alive. 

And if they all held him closer after that, well, he certainly did not complain. 

The group accepted Tristan with a wary eye but little in the way of comments. Some trusted him more than others, but he had saved their lives, and Enjolras vouched for him. In the end, with more to worry about than a stranger, they deferred to their leader's judgment. 

Bit by bit, they started to leave the basement. They were wanted men, except for Grantaire, whose name was not known to the authorities in connection with the barricades. And Grantaire could not go far without assistance. 

However, when Courfeyrac ventured outside one day, he found Gavroche, who had escaped with his sister. He brought the two of them back the the basement the next day, delighted not only to find that they had both survived, but also that they now had someone in the outside world. Eponine and Gavroche would help them get out alive.

“It will not be permanent,” Combeferre said, when Enjolras expressed reluctance to leave Paris. “Just until it is safe for us to return. We cannot hide in this basement forever.” 

Enjolras did not want to go, but Combeferre was right, there was no other option. But still, their plans were half-formed speculation. 

So when Marius sent Gavroche out with a letter, and the woman he called a ghost wrote back with a promise that her father would help her love and his friends escape, Enjolras was surprised. He had accepted that they would leave, but he had not expected it to come so soon. 

The girl arrived with her father the next day, less than a week after the barricades. It took Enjolras a moment to recognize him. But there was the man who had saved his life and gone to kill the spy, the spy who had survived. He had disappeared almost immediately before their arrest. 

“Inspector Javert is an old friend,” he said when he was asked about it. “Of a sort. I spared his life that night.”

“Can he help us escape?” Combeferre asked.

The man, Valjean, shook his head and said nothing. 

“Inspector Javert suffered a grievous injury,” Cosette supplied. “He fell, the night of the barricades. It is a miracle he survived. Papa is seeing to his care.” 

“It seems you are always saving people, Monsieur,” said Enjolras. Valjean did not answer.


	5. Chapter 5

The basement had been too small for as many people as there were. There was hardly opportunity to breathe, much less have a conversation in private. Enjolras felt as though he was teetering on the edge of a precipice with Grantaire, unable to say what they needed to but unwilling to hold it back much longer. 

Grantaire avoided his eyes for most of that week. He did not seem angry or betrayed as Enjolras had feared he would when he had first revealed himself. Instead he seemed almost afraid. 

They left Paris in small groups, under different covers orchestrated by Valjean. Cosette wept bitterly to see Marius go, but she would not leave her father, although he gave her permission. They promised to write, and Marius kissed away her tears and told her again and again that he would be back. 

It was raining when Enjolras left, and he almost felt that the city was weeping the way Cosette had. The rain-soaked streets would resist any impulse he would have to promise his return. 

They would organize the revolution from the outside, they had promised. They would do it differently this time, rise up with the people instead of try to lead them, and they would return when it was safe. They promised each other, because Paris was a city that knew better than to accept promises from foolish boys who spoke of freedom. 

Enjolras left with Joly, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac, because Grantaire volunteered to take the last place in the carriage leaving right before them. He didn't look at Enjolras as he left. Perhaps, like Paris, he knew that any freedom Enjolras promised was a promise he could not keep. 

Still, he was waiting outside their new hideout when Enjolras arrived. His legs were stretched out in front of him as he sat on the front step of the house, and he was drawing something in the dirt with a stick. 

There were no neighbors for miles, and everyone could feel the others around them relax as they realized this. Bossuet and Courfeyrac were laughing as they helped Joly into the house, Courfeyrac detaching one hand from the others to ruffle Grantaire's hair in greeting, making the artist pull away and grumble in annoyance. But there was a smile on his face, a smile that faded as he looked at Enjolras standing before him. 

“Tristan wishes to speak with you,” Grantaire sad. 

Enjolras did not move. “And I wish to speak with you.” 

With a wince of pain, Grantaire pulled himself to his feet, waving off Enjolras's offer of help. “Speak to him first,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“Because what he says to you may change what you say to me.” Grantaire did not wait to allow for any further argument before he turned and limped back into the house. 

For a few moments, Enjolras stayed outside. It had been too long since he had had the freedom to walk unhindered, and though he could hardly say with the clouds above that he was relishing the feeling of the sun on his face, he still breathed deep and was content. His eyes were closed when the door opened, and he snapped them open even though he knew that no one was there but his friends. 

Tristan was standing there, dressed in new clothes likely borrowed from one of the others, his shoulders stiff and wary as he watched Enjolras from the steps. 

“I am sorry,” Enjolras said, “To have dragged you into this.” 

“No, you aren't,” replied Tristan, and Enjolras couldn't argue with him. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Plan,” said Enjolras. “Prepare for the day when we may return to Paris, so that we may be successful in the future.” 

“You still hope to hold a revolution, then?” 

“Of course. What else is there to do?” 

Tristan looked almost amused by that, but he did not answer. “I plan to write to Ghislain,” he said. “See if he will have me, now that I am a fugitive. He may not be much of a revolutionary, but he will help his brother, if he can.” 

“You're leaving us, then?” Enjolras asked. 

“It may be that you are right when you speak of the injustices around us, when you proselytize on freedom,” Tristan said. “And perhaps a revolution is needed. But I am not the one to fight it.”

“I wish I could say I understood,” said Enjolras. “But I accept your wish to leave. I never would desire to hold a man to us against his will.” He stepped forward, holding out his hand. “I wish you the best, Tristan.” 

Tristan did not move. “May I tell Ghislain that you are alive?” he asked. 

“If you think it best.” Enjolras dropped his hand. “My death was never my own plan, only a rumor perpetuated by my parents.” 

“I'm sure, no matter what was said, that they would like to see you again.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“Ghislain would,” Tristan said. “If you would come with me.” 

“My place is here,” said Enjolras. “If I ever truly belonged with you and your brother, as the girl you believed I was, I do not anymore.” 

“You still could.” Tristan moved towards him, eager. “If you wished, you could come home.” 

“That was never my home,” Enjolras said firmly. “And if you think that I could abandon my friends, my people, just to be someone I have never been and have no desire to be, than you are sorely mistaken.” 

He started to go into the house, but he turned once his hand was on the door, unable to leave without ending the conversation. “Sometimes, Tristan Beaulieux, I think you do not know me at all.”

“Sometimes, Julien Enjolras, I agree with you.”

*

Inside, Enjolras greeted the others, delighted to see that all of his friends had made it safely to their new home. They were in the midst of dividing up the rooms, and he interrupted only long enough to say that Tristan would not be staying, that he would take whatever they gave him, and to ask where Grantaire was. 

Grantaire and Joly had been given the two rooms on the first floor, and both had retired already. Now Enjolras hesitated, standing outside the door the others had pointed him to, unsure whether he should knock or leave it for tomorrow. 

With a breath to steady himself, he knocked, and entered at Grantaire's call. 

The man was sitting on his bed, reading a book, and he smiled when he saw Enjolras, but only a little, and his eyes were sad. Enjolras closed the door.

For a moment, they stood there, facing each other, unsure what to say. It was Enjolras who spoke first. “What might Tristan have said that could have changed any conversation with you?” he asked.

“He asked you to go with him.” It was not a question. 

“Yes. Did you think I would?” 

Grantaire hesitated, but nodded. 

“Then you are a fool,” Enjolras said. He did not try to temper his bluntness. “I could never leave with so much undone.” 

“I never thought you would have abandoned the revolution,” said Grantaire. “Only, perhaps, planned it with Tristan.” 

“He is a valuable ally,” Enjolras acknowledged. “But I do not think living with him, even for a short amount of time, would allow either of us to escape with our sanity intact. Besides, I am likely enough to give poor Ghislain a heart attack when he hears about me, I can only imagine what he would do if he saw me.” 

Grantaire laughed. 

“But the revolution is not all I would leave undone,” he continued. “That night in the alleyway, you said something to me that I believe needs more explanation.” 

“I said many things that night,” said Grantaire. “You'll have to be more specific.” 

Enjolras glared at him. “You know what I mean. Don't tease.” 

“Oh, but tease is what I do!” exclaimed Grantaire. “I live to tease you, to bring you down to earth with us mortals, in the hopes that you may not forget us. In fact, one might even say that all I do is-” 

Enjolras cut him off with a kiss. 

It was a rough kiss, unpolished and unpleasant, his tongue sliding between Grantaire's teeth, and a gasp sucking the air out of his throat. They pulled apart with some reluctance, and Grantaire was gaping at him, eyes wide. 

“You said that you could not imagine anyone who did not love me,” said Enjolras. 

“I spoke the truth.” 

“And you?” 

For once, Grantaire did not tease him, did not demand he continue the question. “I cannot imagine myself not loving you.” 

“When you thought I was a man-” Enjolras hesitated. 

Grantaire cupped his face with surprising tenderness, running one finger along the smooth skin of his jaw and looking into his eyes, his whole face bright with intensity. 

“When I knew you were a man,” he said softly, “But saw you as Apollo or Euryalus instead of Tiresias, yes. I loved you even then.” 

“I never knew,” Enjolras replied. 

Of all the reactions he could have expected, what he received still surprised him. Grantaire tipped his head back, long neck exposed, and laughed heartily, the sound bouncing off the walls and momentarily stopping the muffled conversation from outside. 

“You never knew,” he said. “I think you must have been the only one. I was far from subtle.” 

“I was concerned with other things,” Enjolras replied, annoyed. “And- well. If you could hardly imagine anyone not loving me, I was the opposite. I could hardly imagine anyone loving me, not if they knew what I was. Neither a man nor a woman, so how could either man or woman love me?” 

“Who could not love a god?” Grantaire wondered. 

“I am not a god.” 

“Then you must be a man, for what else is there that walks on two legs and speaks?” 

Enjolras couldn't help but smile at this, just a little, and he brushed Grantaire's hair back out of his face. “In my most hopeful dreams, in my silliest visions of the future,” he said, “I never could have imagined that I would have the good fortune to come to know and love someone like you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire scoffed at that, but he leaned in and kissed Enjolras, wrapping his arms around him firmly. Embraces were unfamiliar, dangerous since he had come to Paris, and he shied away automatically from anything that might reveal his secret. But now he relaxed, as Grantaire's fingers ran along his back gently, his lips rough and stubbled against his skin. There was nothing to hide. And Enjolras dared to think, for a moment, that more than embraces or touches, it was Grantaire that might become familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> *
> 
> Obviously I decided to write trans!Enjolras. Full disclosure: I've had some lengthy conversations with my trans* friends about advice writing a transgender character for other projects, but I'm cis, so if I get anything wrong/am horribly offensive, it's totally cool to correct me. 
> 
> Tiresias is the blind guy in the underworld in The Odyssey who can see the future. According to Ovid, Tiresias was turned into a woman as punishment for separating two snakes who were going at it (lolwut), and seven years later he turned back into a man by doing the exact same thing to the exact same snakes. Then some gods asked him if sex was more fun for women or for men, and he said women, so the goddess (Juno/Hera, if you're curious) got pissed because she thought she did more work during sex so she made him blind, and her husband gave him the gift of prophecy. 
> 
> Also, I was picking names for Enjolras and Tristan, and discovered that Tristan apparently means "tumultuous" and Beaulieux means "beautiful place". Tumultuous beautiful place- he's apparently a metaphor for, I dunno, Paris or something. Anyway, Julien is a popular fanon first name for Enjolras apparently (I've seen it used a lot) and it means "youthful". 
> 
> Genevieve means "woman of the people". I didn't realize that until just now. An Anon on the Kink Meme also informs me that "Ste Geneviève is also the patron saint of Paris. The church dedicated to her in the Latin Quarter was turned into the Panthéon during the Revolution. Voltaire, Rousseau, Mirabeau, Marat, and none other than Hugo himself were buried there. Oddly enough, one of the things Geneviève was famous for was negotiating the release of prisoners of war with the head of an invading army [...] she prayed so hard her belief singlehandedly drove away the Hun armies from Paris. And that she was so into self-denial she only ate twice a week.
> 
> So basically I bet she and Enjolras would get along really well. They can go be intense at each other."


End file.
